


Tremulous Baker Boy

by NorroenDyrd



Series: To Taste an Altus [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Awkward Crush, Backstory, Beards (Relationships), Boys In Love, Chubby Inquisitor, City Elf Inquisitor, City Elf Lavellan, Crush at First Sight, Cutesy, Gay Male Character, Gen, Inquisitor Backstory, Judgment, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Original Character(s), Other, Reluctant Hero, Shyness, Skyhold, lavender marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:51:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10039631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: An introductory snippet of city elf Inquisitor Wyon Lavellan, his relationship with his wife (read: beard) Brigidda and her son, and his desperate crush on Dorian Pavus.





	

Round-faced and flushed, the Inquisitor looks very much out of place on his throne. Not a single minute passes without him glancing nervously at Josephine at least several times, fiddling with his vest as if it was constricting his pudgy little self and he was trying to get free. He keeps scratching his forearms, too, the richly embroidered fabric of his blouse too itchy for his body, which is far more used to being clad in simple, coarse shirts and a trusty old baker's apron. This is what he is, after all: Wyon the baker, small and modest and unassuming. The most radical thing he that he did in his past life, what now seems like many decades ago, was scrape together enough supplies to bake a batch of free cookies that would make the alienage children happy for once, instead of being miserable. And now... And now he has somehow wound up getting... infected with some odd glowy green rash, and all of a sudden, it has given people reason to believe that he is wise enough, and brave enough, to decide who lives and who dies.  
  
When the prisoner is finally brought into the throne room (Maker, it still seems to unreal... he has a throne room!..), the Inquisitor arches his eyebrows, with a crimson flush pulsing through the long, pointy tips of his ears; and as he flaps his mouth noiselessly, like a fish out of water, it does not take exceptional lip-reading skill to make out that he is whispering 'I am sorry'.  
  
And he does mean it. This man before him was once a powerful Tevinter magister; and quite an outstanding scholar, too - according to the amaz... to his apprentice. It does not do for him to be judged by an elven baker. He has probably had s-slaves that were more competent than the sweating potato lump that has been squished into a ridiculously pompous and very uncomfy chair, and assigned the task of deciding his fate.  
  
No, no that's not right... Biddy would not like that. Biddy would huff scornfully and slap him on the back to make him stop slouching, and say,  
  
'Dammit, Wyon! Stop turning yourself into a doormat for the shems! You are worth more than that! We are all worth more than that!'  
  
The Inquisitor is too embarrassed to shift his gaze and seek her out in the watchful crowd - but he knows she is there. With her fists clenched, most likely, and her eyes burning with determination on her scarred face. She has always believed in him, the good old Biddy; even before he became mixed up in this Conclave mess. And now she seems to believe in him even more ardently than before - for some reason, she thinks he will make a great Inquisitor, fighting evil, righting the world's wrongs, showing all these humans that an elf is so much more than a silent, meek spit bucket. Even though... Even though, to be frank, that role would have been far more fitting for Biddy herself.  
  
She is strong; she is confident, and unafraid to stand up for herself, and everyone and anyone who does not have it in them to speak up and needs her loud, bold voice to put their suffering into words. And she can actually fight - not like Wyon, who, when faced with his first demon, snatched a plank of wood from a nearby broken cart and started waving it madly with his eyes closed, till Seeker Pentaghast pushed him aside with a disapproving grunt and finished the job properly. He has gotten better since then, thanks to being yelled at a lot by Commander Rutherford - but only marginally so; Biddy, on the other hand, has always been masterful at punching things. She loves punching things, in fact - especially if these are things that, in her mind, deserve punching. For many years, behind the front of a shabby little hair-dresser's shop, she held self-defense classes for young elven girls and boys, encouraging them to 'toss into dust' any shem that might seek to hurt them.  
Yes, she would have made a perfect Inquisitor. He, Wyon, was not even supposed to be at the Conclave: he only tagged along with Biddy on her not-quite-sane spying expedition because he was worried for her. The way he always is. He could very well have stayed behind in the warmth and relative safety of their little house in the alienage - but was too afraid that Biddy's hot-headedness might get her into trouble. After all, she was so desperate to find out how the mage-templar war would end. So desperate to make sure that... that her son was safe.  
  
Her son - little Ruadan, Rudie to his family... which has, somehow, come to include the awkward, bumbling baker. Even though their elders willed for Wyon and Biddy to be wed, as is the city elf custom, and the little one would often call him 'Papa Wyon' when he was still learning his first words, Ruadan is not Wyon's son by blood, Biddy having already been at least a few weeks with child when the marriage arrangements were made.  
  
Wyon cares for the boy all the same, of course - even now, he somehow begins to feel more at ease at the thought that Rudie must be among the onlookers too, hovering shyly next to his mother and batting his eyes in awe at the golden splendour that Ambassador Montilyet's people have filled the throne room with (almost to the brim). But Wyon, the timid, blushing, sheepish Wyon, who apologizes to his cakes if he gets them burnt, and has only a very vague likeness of an idea as to how to deal with people - he knows that his quiet smiles and awkward cuddles before bedtime will never, ever hold a candle to the fierce love Biddy feels towards her son.  
  
Less than a year ago, shortly before this horrible war broke out, Rudie came into his magic, as he was helping Wyon make cupcakes and, having accidentally knocked over the dented little jar with white, purely ground flour (quite a rare treasure in an alienage home), froze it in mid-air to prevent the precious ingredient from getting wasted. When the templars came for him, Biddy fought like some creature out of storybook - a lioness or a she-griffon - getting what must be half of her current scars in the process. And when news reached them that the Circles had been dissolved, she took but half an hour to pack a bag, lock up the bakery and the adjacent 'hairdresser's shop', and march off into the wilds, a flustered, panting Wyon trotting in her wake. She was ready to do anything, she told him then, her voice curt like a whip lash. Anything, from cleaving her way through an army of templars to dodging a barrage of fire bolts to holding the grand clerics at knife point till their underlings led Rudie out of the crowd of rebel mages by the hand. Anything to bring him back.  
  
Anything to bring him back. These words still ring in Wyon's mind as it wanders back to the present, and he re-focuses his attention on the prisoner. And with that little pang he always feels when he apologizes to someone (be it cake or human), he realizes that he will not be able to sentence the man to death, or even imprisonment. And not just because he is definitely more afraid of the magister than he is of Wyon.  
  
'Uhhh...' Wyon clears his throat and tries to steady his voice and make it sound more authoritative. 'I, er, decree that... You go and... Do some Fade-studying... thing... For... For the benefit of the Inquisition. You, uh, seem to be good at that. Just, er, please don't blow up the world again. Mmm, Lady N-Nightingale would probably not let you do that... I hope. That is all'.  
  
Of course, the impression that Wyon's decree makes is far from striking. Even Ambassador Montilyet, who has been so patient and understanding with him as he blundered his way through diplomatic meetings, seems slightly exasperated - and the magister glances back at the Inquisitor when the guards take him away, with one eyebrow raised in an expression that seems rather incredulous, perhaps even amused. Sliding off the throne, his ears burning hotter than ever, Wyon silently wishes for the floor to crumble beneath his feet, making him drop into a bottomless pit and never crawl out again... But as the crowd disperses, he suddenly feels his hand being grabbed and shaken.  
  
Startled to the point of terrified, dumbfounded silence, Wyon barely has enough willpower for a series of confused blinks. As his vision clears, he sees young Master Pavus, in all his refined Tevinter noble glory... Smiling at him.  
  
'Thank you,' he says earnestly, making the hapless elf's heart drum violently, sending a ringing echo to his temples. 'For giving Alexius a chance. He... He is not the man he once was - but it is still better to know he is alive... rather than not'.  
  
'He reminded me of my wife,' Wyon blurts out, not really giving much thought to what he is saying. 'If her boy fell sick and she was offered a cure in exchange for the whole world, I think she would have thrown all the kingdoms into the abyss - and even yelled, "Hurry up, you bloody shems!".  
  
He tries to imitate Biddy's voice at the end of his explanation - and does that really poorly, trailing off into stifled silence after a small gulp. But Master Pavus does not seem all that concerned by Wyon's abysmal acting skills. There is something else that interests him.  
  
'Your wife?' he echoes, sounding quite surprised. 'Oh... You must mean that no-nonsense redhead who got reunited with her child when the Inquisition so graciously recruited the mage rebellion? Brigidda? She is quite fond of having drinks with your... rustic mercenaries. Strange, I don't remember her introducing herself as your wife. She did mention being your roommate back from the... the alienage. But one would think that the spouse of the great and mighty Inquisitor would flaunt the connection at every corner. How oddly humble of her! Unless... Unless you, my friend, are being stood up, as the saying goes, in favour of that temptingly sizeable Qunari'.  
  
At this point, the flame engulfing Wyon's ears gets so strong that he has to cover them with his hands.  
  
'I... I know she is in... interested in The Iron Bull,' he stutters hurriedly, 'And I have n-no quarrel with her. The... The thing is... Our marriage was arranged. She does like to jokingly call me her "roommate hubby"... Because that is what we are'.  
  
'An arranged marriage!' Master Pavus exclaims; his tone is jesting, as always... But at the same time, somehow... not quite so. 'I never thought I could find a common subject to complain about with the southern elves! At least... At least you don't hate each other too much, I trust?'  
  
'We don't hate each other at all,' Wyon pipes up eagerly. 'We are close friends! I... I think I might have even fallen in love with Biddy, if I wasn't...'  
  
He swallows. Really? Wyon sensed from the start that Master Pavus's beauty and elegance and just overall... perfection seems to have an intoxicating effect on him - but he never would have predicted that it might cause him to... almost let slip so much about himself. What was he going to tell him next - that when we was younger, he kept having crushes on other boys? That he even dreamed about kissing one, some day, in some other life, where he wasn't so stupid and fearful and ugly? That he never had any thoughts of this kind about a woman? And that right now, sometimes, when this sort of inexplicably happy, giddy sensation comes over him at the sound of Master Pavus's voice, he catches himself frolicking amid the same thoughts? As if Master Pavus would care; as if he would take him seriously; as if he, a proud Tevinter on a noble quest to redeem his homeland, the man who corrected the flow of time itself, would ever return the feelings of a fat little baker from an elven alienage, who simply was at the right place at the right time.  
  
'If I wasn't me,' Wyon finishes quietly, and scurries off, before Master Pavus can continue the conversation.


End file.
